There was a lull. Lanyard with an abstracted air folded the sheaf of papers and put them away in his pocket, then became amiably aware that both Morphew and Pagan were watching his every action with the eagerest interest.
"Eh bien, messieurs! Shall we, as you say, rejoin the ladies?"
"You"—Morphew abandoned all effort to disguise the strain upon his self-control—"you're going to go through with it?"
Lanyard's shoulders were more expressive even than the spoken retort: "What else has one to do?"
Sitting back, Morphew absently mopped his face with a napkin. "One hell of a hot night," he muttered. . . . "That's all right, then. You're such a fire-eater I didn't know but you might try to buck on me at the last minute."
"Tranquilize yourself, monsieur. My word has been passed. There is but one thing I cannot promise: I may not be able to make the clean sweep of the Vandergrift jewels that you desire."
"What's to stop you, once you get set at that safe?"
"Who knows, monsieur?" Lanyard pushed back his chair. "The element of chance enters into every human affair. Who knows whose hand will cast the dice tonight? Who knows how they will fall?"
To himself he added a cry of despair: "Mother of God! who cares?"